


Nightmares and Promises

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Fire Emblem Musou | Fire Emblem Warriors, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Brief mentions of things that are spoilers for those two games, Fire Emblem Warriors Spoilers, Gen, Longer Version of Conversation "Not the Dragon You Know", The Dark Pontifex Spoilers, fire emblem awakening spoilers, male robin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-07 12:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: She cannot resist the voice in her ear any more than she can refuse to eat or sleep. She believes it wholeheartedly, mind and soul, and she will do what it requests. After all, is it not her duty, her life to protect the holy artifact against would-be thieves?-- -- -- -- --Spoilers for Fire Emblem: Warriors The Dark Pontifex (history mode). Story unbeta'd.





	Nightmares and Promises

She sees all of them. They are an army, a force to be reckoned with, and perhaps this is the reason she hesitates. A voice continues to softly whisper in her ear  _ kill them _ and she knows it is her mission, her truth, her destiny to do so. She slowly draws her hands into fists and steps forward into the light. The shadows trail after her like a cloak, but they grasp and scheme, and they are not hers.

_ They have come for the holy stone. Kill them before they take something so precious. _

She is… a guardian, yes? For a moment she merely closes her eyes and floats in memory, seeking the many millennia of life and finding only recent recollection. How long has this powerful magic been under her protection? How long has it been sealed away, and why is this army coming only now to steal it? She frowns, her slightly pointed ears drooping, and her fists at her sides shake. No… something - 

_ Tiki, you know what must be done. You know I would not lead you astray. _

Yes. She knows this voice, this soft, elderly voice. It is like the soft tones of the grandfathers speaking to their grandchildren, the voice they use to comfort a scraped knee or a bruised arm. Soothing and familiar, unlike these encroachers. Tiki draws herself up, opens her eyes, and narrows her concentration. They will not harm anyone else, nor will they have the stone.

“Tiki!” one of them calls. A young man, hair a strange grayish-white and purple coat billowing out around him, approaches at a run, a smile across his face. Yet another oddity - perhaps the man thought she could be tricked by a mere kind appearance. She stayed her ground even as he slowed and stopped a few feet in front of her.

“Tiki?” he asks, smile dropping from his face and replaced with… concern? His brow narrows and she thinks it must be a common thing and she wishes strangely to scold him for it. He reaches a hand out to her, gently, even as the world erupts into chaos around them all.

“Tiki, it's alright - we’re here. You’re safe with us again,” he says as if to be reassuring.

“Back… away,” she grits out. Her teeth are sharper in her mouth, her claws growing, her body awash with power and flame alike. She watches him take a step back and visibly stop himself from moving any further away.

“What has he done to you?” he whispers, horrified, and shakes his head firmly. “Whatever Gharnef has told you, it's all a lie!”

The grandfatherly voice turns harsh for a moment in her ear, the smooth tone replaced by a fierce growl,  _ Why do you stand there? Will you not defend your charge? _

“I will,” she responds, a snap, and her body shifts. The world sharpens - scents become so much greater than mere smells, colors far more vivid and clear - and she launches into the sky. He is still there, stumbling back, and further out, his companions fight monsters. No, not monsters, allies - allies of the grandfatherly voice. They will not harm her nor the the holy stone; they are merely doing their duty as she does. 

With a screech, she dives, wings tucked close to her body and teeth on full display. He runs, but It is a futile thing: she rakes her claw through the air and tosses him aside like a mere ragdoll. His body rolls across the dirt even as his cry is swallowed by her screech. No one turns towards them, or if they do, they are soon overwhelmed by her allies. All is as it should be.

Tiki makes her way over to him and her form shifts back. She feels the stone in her hand cool, a familiar and welcome weight, and she kicks him onto his back.

His coat is shredded near his middle and blood stains the visible skin. It's already soaked into his pants, the once cream color now a muddied mess, and he groans as he opens his eyes. They’re glazed with pain but it is not enough. He won’t stop until she is dead and her charge is taken from her.

“Tiki,” he whispers, and it too is pained. He wheezes pathetically and his hand falls to the tears. His fingers cannot even cover one of the claw cuts completely. “It's me. It's - ”

She cuts him off with an easy flick of her hand. He thrashes weakly once before shuddering and going still in her cradle of power. Lifting him from the ground is child’s play; squeezing him, little by little, and ordering gravity to do her bidding is slightly more difficult, but for her? It is nothing.

“P-Please, Tiki,” he gasps.

Footsteps, and then the grandfather voice at her ear again, physical this time.

“Tiki, well done.”

She vaguely smiles at the praise. In her grasp, the young man groans, and she returns her attention to him. His back arches as lightning arcs from over her shoulder and targets his entire body.

“Validar thought you might be useful, spawn of Grima,” the gravely voice continues. Tiki does not need to know what he looks like, nor can she really recall. She merely holds the trembling body still in the air.

She almost misses the moment he calls on his not insignificant magic, but with another flick of her free hand she tosses the book clutched desperately in his fingers aside. A second flick has him screaming and she blinks. She glances to her right and sees a wrinkled hand with a few gemed rings sparking once again with lightning hovering in the air over her shoulder.

“None of that, none of that now,” the elderly voice says smoothly.

Tiki tilts her head to the side and feels the warm weight of that old hand gently rest on the top of her head. With the intensity of a bird of prey she watches the young man in her grasp writhe again and again, his voice cracking and breaking, and she wonders, briefly, if it is necessary.

_ You wonder such silly things, my dear. He must be punished for even thinking of taking such a precious item from you. _

“O-Of course,” Tiki stutters aloud, but her brow furrows slightly. She cannot recall if grandfather spoke aloud too.

Further out, more screams - some screeches of her allies, others cries of human beings - echo about, fighting each other to be heard. The clash of weapons creates a deafening din, but she hears her little area perfectly - each pained breath, each whispered word, each beat of a damaged heart. She blinks once, twice, and looks over the battlefield. Her allies strike with precision and wild abandon all at once, throwing themselves in bulky masses, but they fall like blades of grass beneath the weapons of their opponents.

“Tiki? Let him down, will you? I wish to speak with him. We will see what this whelp says.”

Distractedly, she lets the young man down, but she does not look at him, nor at the owner of the grandfather voice. Instead she studies what remains of the Temple of Thabes, of the tower that stretches high into the sky like an ancient beacon. She watches the way the light glints off of it even as a high pitched cry erupts ahead of her.

_ Am I… truly the guardian of such a holy artifact?  _ she thinks and tries to recall again how long she has stood here. She hears a spout of coughing and finally looks to what grandfather is doing.

The young man who she does not know the name of is once again arched like a celery stick about to snap. Purple lines race down his skin, over his face, even within the blood pooling rapidly from his chest. They writhe like they are alive in and of themselves and there is a pattern there, a pattern that makes her own heart thud so loudly in her ears. His eyes flash crimson then vibrant purple with magic having nothing to do with the book and grandfather… laughs. He clasps his hands behind his back and watches with rapt fascination.

“The great blood of Grima,” he chuckles. “I suppose you might make an interesting experiment once this rabble is gone. I doubt Validar would care...” He reaches down and wraps a hand around the young man’s lower arm, purposely digging into the purple lines splitting the skin and leaving new streams of blood in their wake. The cry is no less full of pain, but weaker, more a moan than a scream, and Tiki suddenly takes a step forward.

“Please… please stop,” she hears herself whisper, and a part of her mind rebels. What is she thinking? Grandfather is right, always right, and she must do as he says, because - 

\- because…?

“Unhand him!”

Her mind jars itself and for a moment she is falling as though she cannot get her wings to beat. She hears a gasp and it sounds strangely like her voice, and she soon finds herself on her hands and knees, staring at the ground. Her hands shake, nails digging into the dirt, and she tries to move through the maelstrom going strong in her mind.

_ Stop! _ she cries helplessly and squeezes her eyes shut. Ahead of her, she feels magic erupt, and it is corruption and poison and she whimpers at being even near such an evil thing. A sword rips through the air, a soft  _ shing _ of sound trailing after, and she forces herself to look up, to  _ see _ as she could not before.

It is a gnarled, crooked man who duels another with startling blue hair and a shining, familiar sword. They both fight ferociously, tearing at each other, but where the blue haired man does so with finesse and strategy, the old man simply throws enormous spell after enormous spell in an attempt to rend.

Marth. She sees Marth, determination and proud set of his brow both welcome and wonderful and so utterly familiar that she takes a step forward, the frozen set of her features melting into something far more joyful, until she freezes for an entirely different reason.

Tiki sees not grandfather, not a kind old man with a pure heart and a protective soul. She sees  _ him,  _ and her world goes white.

Her cry is that of the dragon within; the stone in her hand is as hot as the lava they faced not long ago. She screams with the fury of one betrayed and swoops down with a mere thought. It is instinct driving her, and she embraces it. Grandfather - no,  _ Gharnef _ \- stumbles out of the way, a hasty shield stopping the flames from engulfing him entirely.

“Damn you all!” he snaps and Tiki snarls at him wordlessly. This feels wrong too, this anger and hatred and pain, but it is more her than her previous behaviors and she knows who she is even through the powerful emotions beating inside of her. She swipes at Gharnef with her tail, hoping to knock him down long enough for the swordsman - Marth, she repeats to herself,  _ Marth _ , and she has to bite back a soft sob at how long it took her to remember - to use his blade for its intended purpose.

Instead Gharnef wavers like a mirage and dissipates, snarling, “You’ve merely bought yourself a few more moments of breathing. Soon enough, all of you will fall!”

When his form completely disappears, Tiki lowers herself to the ground and feels the transformation fall away. She stays on her hands and knees even as she hears the sounds of battle dying down around them and the cheer of victory coming from her companions. Yes, her companions. Her  _ friends _ . And she would have torn every single one of them apart.

She hiccups, then sobs, and curls in on herself, her eyes shutting as tightly as they could. If she kept them closed, perhaps she wouldn’t see the truth of her actions.

“ _ Robin _ !” Without her consent, Tiki’s head jerks up in time to see another blue haired warrior appear. His right shoulder has a familiar pattern on it, much like a tattoo, and where he would normally be welcome as Marth is at the moment he is the last person she wishes to see. His sword, newly sheathed on his hip, shifts with him as he falls to his knees beside the limp body of the tactician. Nearby, Marth sheathes his sword as well, and begins to walk towards her.

_ No, no, no, no, no! _ she cries inside her head and feels the tears slide down her cheeks.

“Tiki?” he says softly and she lets out another little sob.

“It was like being in a nightmare,” she whispers and she is surprised It is as coherent as it is. She jumps as Marth gently takes her hand in his and holds it.

“It was not your fault,” he says and she snaps her hand out of his.

“Yes it is!” she cries. She takes a few steps back, her ears twitching in her distress, and can't bear to look towards Robin’s body. “I…  _ I _ …!”

Marth says nothing, his eyes without the judgement she knows she deserves, and Tiki averts her eyes into the sky. She wants to scream and sob and beg for forgiveness but she cannot bring herself to even look at what she is done. She glances down at her hands, her eyes widening in realization as she sees crimson beneath her fingernails and all over her fingers and It is  _ his blood  _ and - 

“Tiki.” This time Marth’s voice is firm. He takes her hands in his and forces her to unclench them. When he smoothes his fingers over hers, she sees the deep impressions she made in her own skin, and she almost laughs at the lack of pain because she deserves it and so much more. Yet another mistake in a millennia of them, a millennia she can finally remember.

“Gharnef did this,” Marth says and as Tiki starts to pull away, his grip tightens around her hands. “No, you need to hear this. Gharnef did this, not you. The battle is over. The  _ nightmare  _ is over.”

In some ways, she wishes she didn’t know it was reality, that the dream had continued.

She finally raises her eyes to his and is crushed by how gentle and kind and warm they are, even if his lips stay in the frown she dislikes so much. There is no pity, though, and she cannot help but be grateful for it.

“Marth? We need to move him, now.”

Chrom has Robin cradled against him and Tiki cannot help but stare. His skin is streaked with burns where the lightning struck him, scarring him in ways that will never heal. The purple has faded at least from his pale complexion but it too has left visible marks. She doesn’t know if they are deeper than just his skin and guesses they are. Blood runs down from his nose, the corners of his eyes, his lips, but he still breathes, and it is a tiny miracle she clings desperately to.

“Ti… ki…” His voice is little more than a croak, but she hears it, even as far as she is from him. Chrom starts and stares down at Robin as the tactician’s eyes crack open. Tiki lets out a half sob and releases Marth’s hands, moving before she even realizes it. In moments she is at Robin’s other side, and she gently takes his right hand in hers. She strokes the mark there, the one that looks like eyes and evil and seems so out of place on him. It is the same mark only moments ago grew on his body like a weed and she bites the inside of her cheek to distract her from the image.

“G-Glad…” Robin whispers. He can't move, he can't, and yet he squeezes her hand. Chrom’s talking nearby and Tiki wishes she had some way to ease Robin’s pain and get rid of the wheeze in his breathing. She clasps his hand and shakes her head. She can't meet his eyes.

“I’m… I’m so so… sorr…” she tries and cannot get the words out.

Robin squeezes her hand again and she finally raises her head so she can see into his half-lidded eyes, bloodshot through and through. A crimson tear rolls down his cheek; he tries to blink it away.

“I won’t…” A breath, another wheeze. His heart is still beating but she can see how much it takes to keep it that way. Gently she brings their hands over his heart and he shudders beneath the touch. Tiki gasps and tries to pull back, but he keeps them there with the rest of his strength and it is through will alone she is sure that he keeps his eyes open. “I won’t… se-separate… from you…ag-gain...”

Her brow furrows as she tries to parse together his words. Before she can entirely understand him, he adds, “I will pro-protect… you.”

Chrom holds Robin steady as a new fit of coughing takes him and Tiki grips Robin’s hand too tightly and cannot help it. His heart stutters, his breaths get caught, but it keeps beating, and he keeps breathing.

“Promise?” she whispers. Her voice breaks on the second part of the word. It tastes like ash in her mouth; each of her words does. She cannot help but remember a conversation about dreams and nightmares, of shared pain and buried sorrow, of unwanted knowledge and overwhelming destiny, and sees the it all once again in the broken form in front of her.

His lips twitch upwards into a smile and Tiki bites her lip to stop it from trembling. As his eyes slide shut, and Chrom frantically shouts his name, he whispers, “Promise,” and Tiki tightens her grip on his hand. She moves as he does, as he is carried off the battlefield, as each jar to his body shifts something irrevocably wrong inside of him, but she holds to his promise as much as his hand.

Robin wouldn’t break a promise to her, even if she nearly broke him.


End file.
